


untouched thy honey'd blossoms blow

by Draco_sollicitus



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (heavier on the hurt), Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Brief Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Joe is the Honeypot, M/M, Nicky doesn't like that, Protective Nicky, Rescue Mission, Torture, honeypot mission, switching POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Copley sends the team after a Dutch businessman with a dark secret; but, as the man's interest in Joe blossoms into something more like wicked obsession, Nicky grows more and more anxious about their latest mission.("You've done this a dozen times," Joe points out to Nicky -- not realizing that Nicky has only ever done this because it meant that Joe, his Yusuf, would be safe)After things go wrong and Joe is taken, Nicky knows he will not stop until he holds his beloved once more - even if he has to burn down the entire world to find him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 117
Kudos: 985





	1. The Honeypot

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You all were so kind about [my other Old Guard fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531576/chapters/61947547) where the plot is "Nicky gets kidnapped/is in danger so Joe saves him" -- so here's a fic where Joe is in danger and will be rescued by Nicky!
> 
> title of the fic comes from the 1786 poem "The Wild Honeysuckle" [by Freneau](https://poets.org/poem/wild-honeysuckle)
> 
> **Warnings** about this fic and this chapter in particular:  
> Honeypot mission = a mission where a character sleeps with/seduces a target for the mission  
> [Don't worry, Joe will NOT have to sleep with the bad man in this, AND while there will be some threat of sexual violence, it will not be fulfilled]  
>  **Human Trafficking** as a plotline: the person they're hunting down is involved a child/woman sex trafficking ring  
> References to that man using/discarding 'boyfriends' (non-graphic, vague references to murder)  
> References to past missions where Nicky was the honeypot (references to attempted sexual assault, brief, non-graphic)
> 
> ALSO, Some smut (consensual, loving) is in this, right at the end (basically skip after Nicky locks the door if you don't want to read that)

It’s not the worst job Ambroos has had this month. 

Sitting safely, holed up in a car outside a nicer building, listening to the beautiful couple arguing on the third floor. Ambroos has  _ certainly  _ worked worse jobs than this.

He’s grateful that his mother had so insisted he learned Italian as a boy; it’s why Van Dijk had asked him to sit out here, sipping coffee, idly following the conversation coming through from the device planted behind a lamp in the handsome little flat above the street.

There’s a crackle of interference, and he looks up from the newspaper as the fierce argument, delivered in beautiful Italian that would have made his tutor weep, resurges.

“ _ I don’t see why you have to flirt with him so much!”  _ The lower of the two voices he’s been listening to this week, belonging to the attractive Italian with ice-blue eyes. 

Ambroos listens more intently now as their argument tilts towards an interesting topic.

_ “My love, I’m not flirting, but if a handsome man talks to me so politely, and treats me with such respect, I am obliged to respond the way I would to a less handsome man!”  _ That would be the man from Egypt, also attractive. 

Ambroos wonders at  _ how  _ two such attractive men found each other across culture and language and geography; but, he wouldn’t be here if they weren’t so … compelling.

The Egyptian is spoken over quickly by the Italian, Nicolaas -- no, just Nicky, Ambroos remembers. A strange, childish nickname, but sweet. The man doesn’t sound sweet right now as he shouts at Joe, his fiance. 

_ “It’s always like this! You make me feel insane! Why did you ask to marry me if you wanted to go on holiday with handsome older men, hm?” _

_ “I cannot talk to you when you are like this, Nicolo -- Nicolo, where are you going?” _

_ “I’m leaving!”  _ Nicky shouts, and Ambroos winces and lowers the volume on his stereo; he eyes the third floor window as Nicky continues,  _ “Maybe you should call Abbe while I am out, see if he is willing to get on his knees for-” _

_ “-if you walk out that door,”  _ Joe warns.

_ “What? Tell me, Joe, what will you do if I walk out?” _

_ “You shouldn’t come back.”  _

A breathless, tense moment of quiet, and Ambroos feels his own mouth opening at the sheer drama blossoming out from his speakers. 

Someone takes a ragged breath, and Ambroos frowns when he hears someone speaking in an unfamiliar language in the crackle of the speakers. Arabic, maybe? A soft exhalation, almost like a laugh, and then --

Ambroos smacks the speaker, shaking it a little, in time for Joe to speak again:  _ “What are you doing?” _

_ “What does it look like I am doing?” _

“What are you doing, huh?” Ambroos mutters, unable to see into the flat.

_ “Nicolo, stop this-” _

There’s a gasp, and a strange metallic noise as though someone had dropped something very close to the well-hidden bug, metal clattering on the small table.

_ “Keep it,”  _ Nicky doesn’t bother to hide the tears in his voice.  _ “Maybe your new boyfriend Abbe will like it.” _

_ “Nicolo, wait!” _

A door slams, and Ambroos clears his throat and dials the sound down on his radio, flipping his newspaper back open; the door to the building opens, and Nicky stumbles out into the sunshine, wiping at his eyes. His long, graceful legs stumble on the curb; taking long, purposeful strides, he swiftly moves down the street, his hands gripping the back of his shaggy hair.

“Nicky!” Joe shouts from the window. “Nicky, baby, please-”

Nicky doesn’t turn around, and Ambroos tries to sink low in his seat until he hears Joe curse and slam the window shut again.

Ambroos taps his fingers against his steering wheel and then leans over to grab his phone; he dials the number of Van Dijk’s personal assistant.

“Hallo?” He says, pleased with the information of the afternoon. “Ik heb interessant nieuws.”

* * *

_ Three Weeks Earlier _

“You look beautiful,” Joe croons as Nicky steps out of the cab, long legs unfolding with that easy grace he’s possessed for a thousand years; his darling fusses with his long hair and smiles uncertainly.

“You always say that,” Nicky mutters, checking his hair one last time in a nearby window.

“It’s always true.”

Nicky smiles more surely this time and takes Joe’s hand; they both sigh contentedly as Nicky kisses Joe’s fingers devotedly. His sharp tongue teases the blunt tip of Joe’s ring finger, making him groan slightly.

“Amore mio, if you do that much longer, we will miss the art show.”

“Hmm.” Nicky’s eyes twinkle as he relents, and their hands swing between them now as they walk down the narrow street. 

Amsterdam is as beautiful at night as it is in the day, and Joe thinks back to the first time they visited in the 17th century. It was such a smaller town then, just becoming an important port, and seeing it centuries later causes him to feel that strange pride in all things that have survived almost as long as they have.

“Did Andy text you any additional details?” Nicky asks nonchalantly, no extraneous information in his question in case they’re being overheard.

Joe fishes his phone out of his pocket and clicks it open, showing Nicky the face of their target once more. “I hear this gallery has some important patrons,” Joe comments idly as they round the corner. 

Important patrons like Abbe Van Dijk, whom Copley has been tracking for over three years. Van Dijk is a handsome, well-respected businessman who’s made his money in international trade. What few people know is that he has made much of that money in the trade of women and children.

Nicky and Joe were sent here for a very specific purpose: while Van Dijk has amassed a fortune in the bleak, twisted world of trafficking, he himself has shown a propensity for young, handsome men. 

Handsome men like Nicky, Joe thinks with a faint wave of nausea. All beautiful young men, younger than thirty, with classical features and wide eyes. They end up dead or joining Van Dijk’s sick empire as employees (or worse). 

He hasn’t had a ‘boyfriend’ in three months; his last one went the less fortunate way, and Joe wants to scream endlessly when he thinks about the file Copley had reluctantly showed them. He refuses to think about Nicky’s face in the photos of that file, Nicky’s body broken and beyond help.

As far as attracting older, creepy millionaires can go, Joe has to admit that his Nicky looks the part. He’s grown his hair out to look more delicate, the light brown wisps framing his jaw. He’s currently wearing a sheer silk shirt so tight he looks like he was poured into it. His pants are indecently tight as well, and his boots are heeled, giving his already tall frame the added illusion of long, sleek lines. 

It’s far from the first time Nicolo has had to play the honeypot on their team -- it’s always a disaster when Andy has to do it (their targets end up with a knife buried in their ocular socket before the end of the evening), and Joe is sure they would all riot and end up bursting into Van Dijk’s headquarters to slaughter him personally if it were  _ Nile  _ who was asked to do this. She’s too young, he thinks as they near the gallery. Still so innocent. Untouched by the evil of this world.

But, if Nicky can gain Van Dijk’s attention and favor (and  _ of course  _ he will because Nicky is the most beautiful man who’s ever lived; there’s multiple oil paintings commissioned during the Renaissance to confirm Joe’s adamant opinion), he can be their eyes and ears to the Van Dijk empire, getting them a way in without having to shoot a bunch of people and potentially lose evidence.

There isn’t a shipment due for over a month, which gives them some time to collect evidence, track Van Dijk, and hopefully get into his files without being noticed. 

Van Dijk likes to spoil his boyfriends, per Copley’s research: he dotes on them and courts them like he’s Cassanova himself (who, in Joe’s opinion, had not been all that charming, which has  _ nothing at all  _ to do with that time in Venice, Giacomo, that fucking twit) for weeks on end before inviting them to be his live-in lover. Van Dijk is not a man to say no to, even if you were unaware of the blood on his hands, so they all fall for it.

And, they’re all gone within months, discarded for a newer model.

Joe squeezes Nicky’s hand, and Nicky nods at him once as they walk through the doors of the gallery. It’s a clean, wide open space with more traditional art installations, and they walk around pretending to admire everything; Joe finds himself admiring the brushwork on a painting before Nicky drapes himself over his shoulders, and whispers, “he’s here,” into Joe’s ear.

“Caro mio, could you get us some refreshments?” Joe asks loudly, not taking his eyes off of the exquisite painting in front of him. 

“Si, polpetto,” Nicky purrs with a wink; Joe snorts, barely hiding it. 

_ Meatball. He calls me meatball. Ass. _

Nicky slinks off, and Joe allows himself to watch his Nicolo walk away -- they’re all here to admire art, after all. No one would think twice if they caught him staring at Nicky’s ass. He goes back to the artwork, and considers the choice of color, wanting to look actually engaged so that Van Dijk is free to approach Nicky. He actually does like this piece; it reminds him of a less bold Rothko, without being derivative of the genius.

Suddenly, there is another at his side.

“Hallo,” the man greets him in Dutch. “It is exquisite, is it not?”

“Yes,” Joe answers readily, in Dutch as well. “I have not seen anything like it in many years.”

“Are you an artist?”

Joe turns and controls his surprise; Van Dijk stares back at him, brown eyes murky but curious. 

“Yes.” That’s an honest answer; Joe had been an artist before he’d fallen in the Crusades. He enjoys when he and Nicky can have a quiet decade here or there where he’s free to paint and sculpt and live. “A painter. But not as good as this, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Van Dijk says graciously, and Joe smiles at him as warmly as he can smile at a monster.

“I always love seeing the art in this city,” Joe says to continue the conversation. “How it can sweep from Rembrandt to the likes of this … it never fails to impress.”

“Joe.” Nicky’s returned now, and he hands him a flute of champagne. Unlike the two men, he speaks in accented English -- he does not speak Dutch, another element to this job that has Joe nervous as hell. “Introduce me to your friend?” His voice, usually so lovely to begin with, sounds darker than normal, dripping with promises that only Joe has seen fulfilled.

(He thinks of this monster touching Nicky and wants to strangle the life from Van Dijk; but he must show patience and trust)

“Oh, we had not yet done the introductions yet.” Joe smiles at Van Dijk, who extends his hand to Joe first. “I am Joseph Jones, but you can call me Joe.”

“Joe,” Van Dijk repeats with a slick smile. “I am Abbe, Joe.”

Nicky bumps into Joe’s shoulder endearingly, and he gives them a shy smile. “And this is Nicky, my fiance,” Joe says with all the pride he really feels to call Nicky his. 

“Fiance.” Van Dijk doesn’t seem happy about that.

“It’s very new,” Joe says with a happy sigh - and it does feel new, even though it’s older than all of the architecture in this city. 

Van Dijk lifts his eyebrows but then returns his attention to the painting; Nicky is clever enough to insert himself between Joe and Abbe, and they talk of art, the businessman at times lapsing into Dutch so that only Joe understands. It is a tense evening for Joe, but Nicky plays the part well, bashful and sweet and charming where Joe is calm, reticent, but worldly. The artist and the muse, as they’d planned.

He thanks Copley’s skills for giving them fake degrees from university, for forging resumes and LinkedIn profiles, gallery showings of Joe’s, Facebook pages and Instagram profiles (not with their real faces of course, but with various outlines of information and connections to the travels they mention casually to Van Dijk). 

Joe eyes the security detail behind Van Dijk and notes that they have taken an avid interest in the three of them; his eyes linger on Nicky, who is hanging off of every word Van Dijk had, his broad shoulders rounded to make himself look smaller, sweeter, more vulnerable.

(Joe thinks of Nicolo holding his longsword aloft, blood splattered on his cheekbone like a careless brush of rouge, beautiful and terrifying as he cuts down enemies -- there is very little that is  _ vulnerable  _ about his Nicolo, but Van Dijk will have to discover this later)

Before they leave, Van Dijk inquires after their lodging situation, and Joe gives the street name peacefully - he’s sure they’ll be ‘running into’ this man by the end of the week. He keeps a firm hand to the small of Nicky’s back as they walk away from the art gallery, and Nicky’s eyes, dark in the moonlight, are impossibly coquettish as he glances at Joe.

“Do you think he’s interested?” He asks in Arabic, and Joe snorts.

“He’d be an idiot if he weren’t.”

He pauses and kisses Nicolo deeply in sight of the gallery, one hand in his long hair. Joe relishes the taste of his love, as full on it as he was a millennium ago, and Nicky sighs, clearly sated as well.

They press their foreheads together and breathe deeply until they are once again in perfect sync. “Let’s get you home, Nicolo.”

* * *

Andy paces in the back of the safehouse, far at the edge of the city. Their rented flat is kilometers away, on the other side of Vondelpark. 

At the small kitchen table, Nile shuffles a pack of cards, showing off by flipping them in an arc; Nicky looks amused at her attempts to best him once again at blackjack.

“He’s going to cheat,” Joe warns, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Nicolo presses a hand to his thin chest and scoffs indignantly. “I would never cheat!” He declares; Nile snorts and goes back to the cards, and Nicky catches Joe’s eye, winking insolently. “Cheating is a sin.”

“Mhm.” Nile nods her chin at Nicky, having dealt their cards. “I’m watching you.” 

Nicky peers at his cards and then smiles innocently. “Hit me.”

“She might just by the end,” Joe teases, and he smiles, warm in the chest, when that gets a sweet giggle from Nicky.

If Booker were here, he’d make some smartass comment about the time in Monaco when Nicky nearly got them all murdered because he was counting cards at the poker table (he’d say  _ I was just minding my own business, enjoying a nice scotch, when it was suddenly oh bonjour, Monsieur Pistolet, no I have never seen that bad man in my life! _ ). Joe tries not to think too much about it, but the warmth in his chest staggers a little at the thought of their exiled friend.

He’s just thinking to himself that a hundred years might have been a little too strong - just look at their family, still living, still fighting, down an important member - when Andy ends her call and walks into the main part of the house towards the kitchen table. She sets her phone down and drops into an empty seat, her eyes flicking between Nicky and Joe. 

Nile sets her own cards down, watching Andy watch them with a learned wariness.

“How did it go?” Joe asks, standing quickly and crossing to the table to sit down as well.

“The bait was taken,” Andy says calmly.

“Ah ha!” Joe leans over and kisses Nicky on the shoulder. “I knew they could not resist my beautiful Nicolo-”

Andy smirks while Nicky smiles fondly at Joe. “Actually … they wanted to know about you, Joe.”

Joe blinks, surprised, and sits upright. He stares at Andy, waiting for her to let him know that she was kidding, but that doesn’t happen. 

Nicky leans over this time, and he bites Joe’s forearm playfully while he is still frozen, staring at Andy. “No one can resist my Yusuf.”

* * *

The flowers come first: dozens of tulips delivered to the front door of their flat. It’s been three days since they met Van Dijk, and suddenly they live in a botanical garden.

It provides a major distraction when he tries to pray at fajr; he goes to perform sujud, catches a whiff of pollen, and sneezes so hard he considers starting all over again.

Nicky smiles at him charmingly after he rises from prayer, and Joe resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “They’re pretty,” he says, after sipping his espresso. “Just like you.”

“Ugh.” Joe kisses his cheek and nips at his earlobe, but then he sneezes again, and Nicky tsks gently while offering him a tissue.

* * *

After the flowers are the endless barrage of invitations; to art galleries, museums, high-end restaurants. Nicky is invited too, at first, but then when his invented job makes up invented reasons for him to miss mid-day activities, it’s Joe, Abbe, and fifteen bodyguards traversing the city.

More information comes in from Copley’s office, and Nicky’s teasing breaks down into endless anxiety, tense hands that embrace Yusuf when he walks through the door, kisses dropped into his hair as Nicky performs another needless physical examination.

“He hasn’t touched me,” Joe says each time, patting Nicky on the hip or cheek. “He hasn’t.”

“If he does-” Nicky swears, low and in old Genoese, and Joe kisses him until the darkness leaves his bright eyes.

“He will not.” 

Nicky’s anxiety for him doesn’t lessen over the next few weeks, and it’s only when they’re at the safehouse, discussing the layout of Van Dijk’s major buildings and storage facilities that Joe is able to ask him frankly about it -- they’ve been bugged since the sixth day of Van Dijk’s courtship, a tiny pathetic thing stuck to their lamp.

“You’ve done this at least a dozen times,” Joe argues. This comes after Nile tells them about one of the more heinous results of Van Dijk’s greed: Nicky had shattered the wine glass he was holding. “Maybe more. With no lasting damage to yourself.”

Nicky is silent as he stares out the window of the small bedroom (Nile and Andy had cleared out with the flimsy excuse of grocery shopping while Nicky was sweeping up the glass). 

“Nicolo?” Joe’s throat tightens at his lack of response. “You were never hurt, correct? They never … never touched you.”

Nicky winces. “Would you hate me if they had?”

Joe wants to fall to his knees and weep at the suggestion. “Of course not.” He walks towards Nicky, hand already outstretched, praising God when he does not flinch away at the light touch to his elbow. “Nicolo, look at me. Look at me.”

Nicky obliges, his eyes nearly silver and a thousand miles away. 

“Did they ever-”

“There were many who tried,” Nicky says hesitantly, back in the first language he ever spoke. “I never… consented.”

Joe bites his lip and looks away, his heart breaking: he does not know how to say that it would be a million times  _ better  _ if Nicky  _ had  _ consented, even under the dubious consent of being the bait to their targets. 

“None succeeded,” Nicky assures him, switching to Arabic now as he embraces Joe. “Yusuf, I swear to you --”

“It is done now,” Joe whispers. There hasn’t been one person in the world Nicky had seduced that hadn’t ended up dead or imprisoned as a result of their missions. “You are safe.”

Nicky’s breath staggers and he buries his face in Joe’s neck, holding him delicately. “But you aren’t,” he whispers. “Yusuf.”

“Shh.” Joe cups the back of Nicky’s head and feels his love tremble weakly. “You will not let anything terrible happen to me.”

“Never,” Nicky promises. “Sono il tuo scudo.” He pulls back and kisses Yusuf deeply, his tongue slipping between his lips with the ease and familiarity of the million-odd kisses they’ve traded. 

“Sono il tuo riparo,” Nicky murmurs, holding Joe’s jaw tenderly as he brushes his nose against his.

They stay in the room then, Nicky only parting from him to lock the door. It’s a touch of manners that Joe knows Nicky only bothered with in case Nile tried to come in. Andy knows better now, knows their rhythms and habits (knows how Nicky gets when he’s anxious about Joe in the slightest)

The sheets tangle around them, points of contact to ground Joe as Nicky fucks into him, his chest and shoulders radiating tension, even though his hips roll as smoothly as ever. 

“Hayati,” Nicky mumbles, pink in the cheeks, the flush a fascinating contrast to his pale eyes. “Ouḥibouka -- Yusuf--”

Joe puts his hands to Nicky’s stomach and discovers it trembling; Nicky adjusts Joe’s leg, where it wraps around his slender waist, and looks away, blinking so that a tear slips down his cheek.

He wants to brush it away, but Nicky does something unfair with his hips, and his eyes slip shut. Groaning, Joe pants out the various invocations of Nicky’s name, trying to assure him that he’s real, that Nicky feels wonderful, that they’re both real and here and safe -

Nicky slips out when he’s so close that Joe could curse him, his beautiful, cruel husband - but his fingers replace his cock inside the tight clutch of Joe’s body, right before Nicky bends down to take Joe into his mouth.

“I love you,” he mumbles whenever his mouth is free to speak, “Yusuf-”

He comes, his body arching off the bed as Nicolo attends to him so devotedly, and Nicky doesn’t even attempt to seek completion for himself. He swats at Joe’s grasping hand half-heartedly as he crawls up his body, covering him completely before he kisses him, drowsy, sweet things that still match the fervor with which Nicky had just made love to him.

_ Sono il tuo scudo,  _ Nicky had sworn. Joe thinks to his impassioned words as Nicky covers his jaw and neck and shoulders with kisses.  _ Sono il tuo riparo.  _

_ I am your shield, your shelter.  _

With Nicky currently between him and the world, his body pressed to his so completely, their bodies sticky and warm and loose, Joe thinks that Nicky had spoken truly.

He cannot be worried about what Van Dijk might be planning, not with Nicky watching over him. His avenging angel, his perfect knight. Joe accepts Nicky’s kiss and is lost to the sensation - both of them crying, both of them comforting, in equal turns and measures.

* * *

They break up loudly a few days later; Joe watches Nicky storm down the street and glances at the ring on the table near the door. 

The car driven by Van Dijk’s henchman is parked out front, not even a hint of subtlety - Joe has to roll his eyes at that. Nicky disappears around the corner, and Joe rubs his neck, looking around the apartment, filled with tokens of Van Dijk’s affection and desire. 

This will be an unpleasant week; but, Joe’s sure he’s had worse. 

(When this is all over, they’re going back to Malta, no matter what job Copley has lined up for them)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far!!! things start to get darker/more angsty in the next chapter (obviously things don't go well when Joe tries to get information from Van Dijk) and it will involve a full-on Crusader!Nicky who goes a little feral when his Joe is taken.
> 
> I would love love love to hear your thoughts, and I can't wait to post chapter two!


	2. The Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While accepting the courtship of Van Dijk, Joe makes a slight error that has massive repercussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello it is I, with more whump for our boys.
> 
> (And oops this fic got longer than the original outline, so now there's three chapters, why do I keep doing this -- also, my other whump fic with kidnapped!Nicky also had Booker POV at the start of chapter 2 and at first I was like, wow this is so repetitive, then I was like, "Is it not enough for us to hyperfixate and seek out patterns of fictional narrative in a way we find soothing?" so yeah, Booker kicks off this chapter anyway)
> 
>  **warnings**  
>  Sexual proposition  
> References to human trafficking  
> Knive-wounds/stabbing/blood  
> Angst-central

Booker does not expect a word from his family for at least five years.

He assumes that Nicky will call him first, probably after arguing with Joe for three years straight about it. His stoic benevolence masks a deep stubborn streak after all, and given that it was Nicky who had been tortured the worst out of all of them, Nicky is guaranteed to forgive Joe before the others. 

If it had been Joe who’d been kept awake while pieces of lung were pulled through his skin … well. Booker thinks his punishment might have been a little more vast, a little more vengeful. From his two hundred year friendship with Nicolo, Booker can recognize that it was Andy’s near-death that probably made Nicky angriest, in combination with the threat to and betrayal of the family. 

As he drinks his way through the south of France, Booker contemplates Nicky and his beautiful clear eyes, Andy and her dry wit and strong heart, Joe and his impossibly unique blend of kindness and ferocity. He also thinks of Nile, who he should be helping right now as she sits in her new immortality and considers the way her living family creeps towards death while she remains impervious. 

Instead, he’s living at the bottom of a bottle, checking his phone every three hours in a newly developed tic. He drinks, destroys his liver, sobers up with a regrettable speed, checks his phone, finds nothing, and starts again.

Five years, he tells himself. He might start keeping tabs on the team after two years, if only to make sure Andy is surviving. But five years, some room for error -- then he’ll get a call from Nicolas with Joseph muttering mutinously in the background before he shouts a reluctant greeting. Maybe he’ll even get a word or two out of Andy if he’s lucky.

Booker gives himself a year to drink, and a few more to figure out how to make this better. It can’t just be time and space that heals what he’s done.

What he doesn’t expect is a phone call five months out from Merrick with Nile on the other end.

“Booker?”

“Nile?” He sits up in the dirt of the vineyard he’d sprawled out in last night and rubs his neck. “How are you, kid?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” She pauses awkwardly.

Booker wonders what he’s supposed to say to a kid who’s literally lived a tenth of his lifespan.

“Look, the others … don’t know I’m calling,” Nile says quietly, and he hears the stress in her voice. “And I wouldn’t bother you, but-”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he jokes.

“We’re in Amsterdam.” Nile clears her throat. “On a mission from … your friend.”

_Copley._

“What are you -” Booker curses and wipes his sweaty, dirty face. “Did it go tits up?”

“Yeah.” Nile lets out a sharp breath that could be a laugh. “Andy said once that you were a tracker. That you were good at finding people.”

She’d called him a hound dog once, and it hadn’t been a compliment, but Booker doesn’t point this out. “That’s true.”

“I need you to come here and find someone.” Nile’s voice has steel in it.

“Find who?” Booker asks, blinking in confusion.

Her answer has him stumbling to his feet and running for the road.

He heads to the old safehouse at the edge of the city as soon as his plane lands - Nile opens the door for him, waving off an angry exclamation from Andy when he walks into the room. 

“How is he?” Booker asks raggedly. 

He doesn’t even try to move out of the way of the knife Andy throws at him; he catches it in the chest and then yanks it out, teeth gritted. “Fuck!”

She stands and stares at him, her eyes terrifying in their focus; they’re red, like she should be crying but is refusing to. 

“I’m not sorry,” Nile says when Andy’s eyes flick over to her. “You can stab me all you want, but we need him.”

“Jesus Christ,” Andromache mutters, turning away and gripping the back of a kitchen chair. 

There’s a tension in the room, grief hanging over them all like a cloud, and Booker sees the computers with photos pulled up, stacks of files, maps spread out -

And Nicky, in the corner, standing as though he’d been turned to stone.

“Nicolas?” Booker takes a step forward. “Nico -”

Nicky shakes his head, clear eyes cloudy for the first time in memory. His body radiates anxiety, muscles trembling and locked, expression haunted, a man on fire with no flames on his body, only inside does he burn - there is blood on his clothes, and whether it is his or someone else’s does not matter. It only means that Nicky has already tried to find him and couldn’t.

“I will find him,” Booker promises, sitting at the table, keeping an eye on Andy in case she throws a knife at his face this time. He really hates being stabbed in the face. “Nicolo, it will be alright.”

“Don’t,” Nicky says hoarsely. “None of this is …”

He trails off and then walks across the room; he grabs a bag and pulls out his sword and a gun. 

“Find him,” Nicky says coldly. “Then let me go in first.”

He looks to Andromache, who pauses before nodding. Nicky checks his gun and holsters it; next is his sword, which he pulls from the sheath to examine the blade, re-sheaths it, and then walks to the door. 

It has begun to rain. As Booker searches through the files, listening to Nile tell him quietly what had happened to their lost brother, he glances up, once, to see Nicolo di Genova waiting for the war to begin. He is framed by the doorway, his head bowed in the torrential downpour, shoulders stiff with an unimaginable burden. His sword is at his hip, and the hood of his sweatshirt has been pulled up. 

A modern knight, Booker thinks as he works. A Crusader who has finally found a mission worthy of his skills, his fury, his steel.

May God have mercy on any who stand in his way.

* * *

_Two Days Earlier_

Abbe Van Dijk is a charming man.

Joe does not care for his charms, and he certainly does not care for the way their slow-going courtship is keeping him from Nicky, and more importantly, keeping him from finding where Van Dijk keeps his most incriminating evidence.

He’ll be accepting a shipment in four days, and then sending off those poor, trapped people to who knows where. Joe would like to know where, so Joe grits his teeth and accepts Van Dijk’s compliments and smiles handsomely when necessary.

Luckily, the part he is playing -- moody, contemplative artist -- does not require him to simper. More than once, Van Dijk compliments his mind and his wit, telling him how much he appreciates having another worldly man to talk to. 

“A man,” Van Dijk says, winking at Joe across the table in a upscale restaurant where the cheapest items on the menu are over 150 euros. “Not a boy. I think I appreciate the difference now.”

Joe smiles and sips from his glass, wrinkling his nose at the taste of alcohol. He does not drink and keeps halal when he can (how he had kissed Nicolo centuries ago when he’d revealed how many recipes he’d been learning to help him eat well while traveling through the world), but he cannot reject Van Dijk for fear of upsetting him and the strange dance they’ve started around each other.

So, he drinks slowly and depends on the blessing and curse of his immortality to wash away the intoxication quickly, hating every moment but needing to see this through.

“I got you something,” Abbe says, distracting him slightly from his sour thoughts.

“Oh?” Joe lifts an eyebrow and sits back in his chair. “That is very kind of you.”

Abbe waves a hand as though to say _of course, of course,_ and holds his hand out; like a cliche in a bad mafia movie (the kind Booker loves, no doubt because it gets the normally temperate Nicky to explode in frustration over piss-poor Italian stereotypes), a man in black appears from a nearby booth to hand Van Dijk a velvet box.

Joe looks around the restaurant, re-confirming what he already noticed: everyone here works for Van Dijk. They’re at the top of a hotel, some twenty floors off the ground, surrounded by windows on all sides. It’s a spectacular view of the entire city, and Joe very much would like to come back here one day and show Nicolo.

(They’d bring Nile and tease her the whole time about _the elevators are very fast, sweetheart, you do not need to go jumping through these any time soon_ and she would flick them both in the ear and threaten to push them out the window, and oh, he misses his family, it’s only been four days of no contact, and he misses his family)

He remembers to gasp and seem impressed by the expensive watch in the box Van Dijk gives him, and he tries not to cut his hand off, or cut Van Dijk’s hand off when he insists on putting it on Joe’s wrist himself.

“Gorgeous,” Joe declares, wondering if his eyes are screaming the truth yet.

“You really are,” Abbe agrees, covering Joe’s hand with both of his, leaning forward over the table. It sounds much too like a line Joe might try on Nicky when flirting, and it churns his stomach, but he keeps the smile on his face as he forces himself to look into the eyes of a monster.

“You have been very kind to me these past weeks,” Joe notes casually. “Especially with my recent … breakup,” his voice cracks authentically on the word, no matter how fake his argument with Nicky had been, “it’s so good to know that I have … a friend here.”

“I would hope that one day soon, we would be more than friends, Zef,” Van Dijk says, purring the unwelcome nickname. 

Joe smiles and nods like he is considering this; he refuses to jerk his hand away from the man’s cold touch. “I … I hope you understand that I need some time after … what happened with Ni-”

“Do not speak his name to me.” Joe does not imagine the nails that dig into the meat of his hand, but he continues to smile, as though he is simply an artist charmed by the passion of a potential boyfriend. “I am not a patient man, Zef. I take what I want.”

“I am sure this is true,” Joe says carefully. “My heart-”

“Your heart can learn to catch up.” Abbe releases his hands and leans back, scoffing; his grey hair is perfectly kempt, and Joe supposes his face is handsome enough - but he cannot hide the evil in his soul, so he is truly hideous to behold. “I am not asking for your heart at the moment.”

Joe pretends to sip from his wine glass. “No?”

“No.” Van Dijk watches him hungrily, and Joe reconsiders the taste of his wine. He has been roofied before, tasted GHB and a variety of cocktails - there is no strangeness to the beverage beyond the unfamiliar taste of alcohol, but he makes a note to watch his drinks in the future. 

“I am asking to fuck you, Zef.”

If he had still been drinking, Joe might have spat up some of his wine at the bluntness of Van Dijk’s request. _So much for romance,_ he thinks grimly.

“Ah.” Joe wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table, folding his hands before he meets Van Dijk’s muddied brown eyes. “You did not expect me to blush, I hope.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” Van Dijk thinks Joe sounds carefree enough because he leans forward once more. “Look at what I’ve given you so far, Jozef. I would give you this-” he gestures widely to the whole spectacular restaurant, accidentally knocking his knife askew, “-and so much more.”

Joe reflexively dives to catch the knife before it hits the floor. He hisses in pain when the tip of the knife buries in his hand, but he twists to grab it and place it back on the table.

“Excellent reflexes,” Van Dijk praises with a smile, and Joe smiles too. “Here, let me see your hand.”

“My hand?” Joe had curled his fingers into a fist the second he’d pulled the knife free. “Oh, my hand is fine.”

“It must have cut you,” he insists, holding his hand out. “Please, Zef. I will not ask again.”

Joe uncurls his fingers slowly, pressing his palm to the tablecloth before placing his hand in Van Dijk’s; he tries not to flinch as the man smooths his thumbs over his palm, which has thankfully healed completely from the tip of the knife.

“What good fortune,” Van Dijk comments breezily, and Joe nods, faintly exhaling in relief.

They wrap up dinner shortly after that, and Joe stands first, adjusting his suit jacket; Van Dijk joins him a moment later, a hand between his shoulder blades as he guides him to the elevator. Joe finds his very touch repulsive, and he eyes the windows wistfully -- if they didn’t need the location of the newest shipment, if he hadn’t _just_ met two significant celebrities today who are enthusiastic customers of Van Dijk, if he hadn’t failed to procure a way into Van Dijk’s systems yet …

Well, he does think Nile had solved the Merrick problem with an absolutely enviable flair.

* * *

It goes to shit less than two days later.

They’re at a building, some construction site a klik away from Centraal Station; Joe’s keeping a wary eye out up and down the street - but then, from five hundred yards away, he can see a glint of metal in the upper window of a church, an unexpected flash of light below the massive cross on the steeple.

He smiles at Nicky’s sense of humor.

Feeling safe now that Nicky has eyes on him (and a sniper scope on Van Dijk) Joe relaxes more into his character and allows Van Dijk to guide him and a group of investors around the site, taking in any pertinent information. As the investors leave, Van Dijk turns to Joe with a strange smile.

“Zef,” he says serenely. “Oh, Zef, I have a question for you.”

They walk towards the street, and Joe tilts his head and smiles back. “I hope I have an answer.”

_If he asks me to sleep with him again, maybe I can manage to get onto his private estate to do so; incapacitate him, and then get the information I need._

“The other night at dinner,” Van Dijk has a hand on Joe’s arm, and Joe frowns at how tight the grip is. “You were so quick in catching the knife.”

“Yes. Like you said, good reflexes.” Joe forces himself to smile still as they walk out into the sunlight. “It comes in handy when I drop a brush in the middle of painting.”

“You can cut the shit, Jozef.” They stop at the curb, and Joe’s entire body locks with tension - this is not a teasing tone anymore. “I know you are not an artist.”

“That sounds a little harsh, Abbe,” Joe tries, eager to correct the course they’re on, but Van Dijk leans in, his breath reeking of the leyden he’d had with breakfast. 

“There was blood on the tablecloth,” Van Dijk hisses, and Joe swallows harshly. “Yet no cut on your hand.”

“Maybe it was a stain from dinner-”

Van Dijk slaps him.

Joe blinks in shock, and starts forward, but a van - white, like a contractor’s, unmarked - pulls up to the curb, and two men grab his arms. Van Dijk pulls out a knife and thrusts it into Joe’s shoulder. He howls in pain before biting the sound back, and Van Dijk tsks as his fingers dig into the hole he’d made. 

All too quickly, the mark completely disappears. 

“Fascinating,” Van Dijk croons, smoothing his fingertips over the unblemished skin. “Oh, Zef, we will have so much fun together.”

Joe thrashes against the men holding him, but it’s no good. They inject him with something (probably enough tranquilizer for a horse, he’ll think when he wakes up) -- and as his body goes slack, he’s thrown into the open door of the van. Even through his growing dizziness, he _hears_ the ricochet of the bullet, hears Van Dijk screaming a curse, sees a man collapse to the ground, bleeding -

Then the door slams shut, and two kinds of darkness wash over him.

* * *

“What the hell was that?” Andy whisper-shouts, sprinting to the church - she’d tried to keep eyes on the van, but she’d been too fucking far away to do anything about it. “What the fuck?"

Nile shakes her head, shocked and pissed off, and she pants as she grabs her knees and catches her breath. “They took him,” she says furiously, “Andy, they grabbed him-”

“I saw that much,” Andy snaps, turning to Nicky, who’s gripping his sniper rifle as though they aren’t in the middle of the fucking street right now. His eyes are dazed, wild, and he stares through her when she looks at him. “Nicky?”

He shows no sign of recognizing her -- nor does his face change, which makes the strangled sob that rips out of his throat sound that much more agonized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh noooooo
> 
> Next chapter is where the angst gets cranked up to 5000, and I'm already sorry for what I have written (I swear I love all of them so much, so why do I do this)
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts, predictions, whatever you're thinking even if it is garbled screaming in rage at my evilness!!! Thank you for reading so far, and I can't wait to post chapter 3 (ft. Feral!Nicky)


	3. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Van Dijk and his associates torture Joe, Nicky picks up his sword and goes to rescue his beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> This chapter got away from me, so I do hope that you take note of the added **warning for graphic torture/violence** as well as the potential warning for **attempted sexual assault**. Clearly I write too much whump fic. 
> 
> **Detailed Warnings**
> 
> Joe is tortured by Van Dijk (focused more on his pain/ the general idea of what's being done to him than graphic bodily descriptions) with an added tw for needles/syringes
> 
> Joe is threatened by Van Dijk sexually, and guards make jokes about it. 
> 
> Joe is touched non-consensually during the torture (not on his genitals, but with the clear threat of it ending there -- Nicky arrives before that can happen) -- if you need to skip that part, go from **(They hadn't tried to kill each other again after that)** to the next page break (but as a warning, it's pretty much straight up into revenge-violence after that page break)
> 
> When Nicky shows up, the real **violence** starts: disembowelings, beheadings, knife wounds, gunshots, **temporary character death** and the permanent death of guards.
> 
> Nicky also **dissociates** during his assault on the Van Dijk compound as he goes absolutely Crusader-destroyer-terrifying on all of them
> 
> Aaaand, consensual, loving, healing smut at the end!

* * *

Nile hasn’t seen anything like this before.

Not in the desert. Not in the church when she saw the aftermath of Andy’s rage. Not in the labs.

This is something else entirely.

“Ho-ly shit.” She looks up from the line of sight on her gun, scanning the walls to avoid looking at the floor.

She’d always thought _dripping with blood_ was a hyperbole.

“When we see Nicky…” Booker trails off. “Best to let only Joe touch him for the first while, yes?”

“What does that mean?” Nile demands. Booker moves around her left flank and towards the next door. She fights back a gag when she steps over the disemboweled body slumped in front of it. “Holy-”

“Nothing holy about it.” Booker checks the corner and then motions her around to go through first. 

Blood pools on the landing of the staircase; a rickety old thing in a lopsided structure near the port. The windows at the top of the stairs are caked with dirt, only distrubed by the arterial spray of the guard underneath. Nile puts her fingers to the man’s neck - what’s left of it - and feels the temperature of his skin.

“He’s still warm,” she says. 

“Nicolo was only ten minutes ahead of us,” Booker points out.

“He did all this in ten minutes?” Nile shakes her head as she clears the hallway. She’s counted thirty-four corpses so far. 

“Hey.” Booker pats her back when they reach the end of the hallway; the blood soaks up through the bottom of her boots in a way that makes her want to go out immediately and buy new ones, in a darker color this time. “Let me go through first, okay?”

“I don’t think anyone’s alive in there,” Nile pointed out. She jerks her head meaningfully down the hallway behind them, the stretch of broken, bloodied bodies that spread down the stairs and out of sight.

There’s a distant scream of pain as though to prove her wrong; it barely sounds human.

“What the fuck?” She whispers.

“Like I said.” Booker squares his shoulders and walks towards the noise. The smell of blood, copper and sticky, lingers in the air. “I’ll go through first.”

The message has definitely landed, but it doesn’t stop Nile from shivering when Booker adds, “Nicky’d never forgive himself if he killed you by accident.”

They’re quiet as they creep along the upper floor of the facility, and when Booker reaches the final door -- the screams of pain echoing now (Nile is beyond grateful that it doesn’t sound like Joe or Nicky), endless, building -- he motions over his shoulder to her to wait.

Booker holds his gun up and takes a deep breath before kicking the slightly ajar door open; he moves in quickly, and Nicky follows after three seconds, checking behind them one last time to cover their six before entering the last room.

Immortal or not, Nile doesn’t think she’ll ever forget what she sees in there.

* * *

[ _Earlier_ ]

Judging by the sunlight entering the dingy room they hold him in, they had snatched him off the street five hours ago.

Plenty of time for the guards to ‘test’ their boss’s discovery; Joe takes a small amount of pleasure in refusing to scream as they drive broken bottles, knives, the like into his body. He understands they will probably grow weary of this sport after a while, and he’d like to conserve his energy for when the real terror happens.

“Wait ‘til the boss gets here,” one man sneers at Joe, who tilts his tired ahead against the filthy wall.

(He thinks to a pleasant, recent memory where Nicky had washed his curls tenderly, kissing his shoulders as he stood behind him in the glass shower; steam washed up around them, Nicky’s hands lazy as they traced patterns of Joe’s bare chest, slipping lower and lower until all Joe knew was Nicky’s lips at his neck and his hand at his cock)

“Did you think this would be your life?” Joe asks in perfectly accented Dutch. He spits out some blood that lingers from the last hit to his face, if only so he doesn’t have to swallow it. 

The men hovering over him eye each other. “What?”

“When you were a child, did you think you would be kicking the shit out of someone while waiting for your boss to show up?” Joe asks, frowning up at them. “Surely you must have had dreams before this.”

“Shut up.” One kicks him in the ribs, and Joe hisses slightly before sighing, the bruise already unmaking itself beneath his skin.

“My dream is the most spectacular dream,” Joe continues calmly. “To see my beloved after this very long, tiring day. You will see him too, of course.”

“We said, shut up!” A kick to the jaw this time, and Joe has to wait for the bone to knit back together before he can speak. 

He spits out a tooth, the new one already growing.

“Normally,” the meaner one says, squatting down to pull him up by his hair, forcing him to look him in the eyes, “Normally, we’d be nicer. We’d want to keep the merchandise nice for the boss, right?” He traces one hand down Joe’s cheek, and he lashes out uselessly with his foot to stop him. “The boss likes to break the toys in for himself.”

Joe stares at the opposite wall resolutely, not looking back at the man even when he tugs more viciously at his hair, some of the strands pulling away from his scalp.

(Damnit. Hair doesn’t grow back like the rest of their bodies do; Joe _likes_ his hair the way it is)

“But considering how special you are … maybe he won’t care if we change it up?”

The man’s breath is hot on Joe’s cheek, and he looks at him at last, at his cold, mean eyes, his ugly mouth.

“A face only a mother could love,” Joe decides out loud. The hand in his hair releases him to slap him, and Joe pretends to reel with it. 

_A face only a mother could love - so no one will miss it._

He slams his head as hard as he can into the face of the man currently tormenting him, breaking his nose. Joe doesn’t wait; he twists under the man’s body, grabs his gun, and shoots him once in the foot, once in the stomach. He brings up his bound hands and shoots the other guard in the leg, and saves the next four bullets for the men who come in next.

Then, he’s out of bullets, and of course they _aren’t,_ so as he collapses to the ground, more metal than man at that point, his eyes drift shut and he thinks only of Nicolo.

 _Find me, hayati,_ he thinks as death steals him momentarily. _I know you are on your way, but speed would be appreciated. Find me._

* * *

He wakes up groggy and on his back, and he tries to wipe his face; his hands don’t move, and his arms are tight. Panic seizes him then, and he looks up and sees that his hands are ziptied, and he’s hanging from the ceiling. His feet are in shackles, tight to the ankle, and are attached to a chain, attached to the wall.

“Hmmrgh.” He says before coughing weakly. He can’t shake the sluggishness, and he looks again to see that there’s an IV coming out of his side, no doubt delivering fucktons of drugs to his system before his liver can flush it.

“Welcome back, Zef.”

Joe starts and pulls on his restraints uselessly as Van Dijk enters the room calmly, his three piece suit immaculate and out of place among the filth.

“Fucker,” Joe swears, his mouth thick over the word. 

“Your forgeries are very good, Jozef,” Van Dijk compliments him. He walks all the way up to Joe, whose stomach spasms in the first flutter of fear since he’d woken up here. It doesn’t get better when he cups Joe’s jaw tenderly in a mockery of the way Nicky would touch him. “I know they’re fake, of course, but that doesn’t mean we can _see_ that they are fake. Excellent work.”

“I know a guy,” Joe says weakly. “Maybe you want his number?”

Van Dijk chuckles and squeezes his face a little, his disgusting, beady eyes searching Joe’s body for a moment; Joe breathes out in relief, not caring how audible it is, when Van Dijk turns away and walks to the middle of the room where a table and chair have been set up.

“Out of curiosity, is your name even Joseph?” Van Dijk asks, snapping his fingers so someone comes to pour wine into his waiting glass.

Joe tries not to snort at the forced cool-crime-boss vibe this dickbag is giving off. Don Corleone Wannabe Motherfucker. He can’t wait to laugh about this with Nicky later. 

_Nicky, find me,_ he prays, _Nicolo, please come._

He has faith in his beloved. He has seen countries fall, churches collapse or change their minds; he has seen gods be forgotten.

Nicolo is the only thing he’s ever found to be truly constant.

“Yes,” he hears himself say. “It’s … Joseph.” His words are slurred, and he glowers at the IV in his side.

“Ah yes, a special cocktail just for you.” Van Dijk pretends to toast him as he settles in his chair. “Now, Joe, I’m sure you are aware that I find you to be a very beautiful man.”

Joe snorts and ducks his head, fighting back a rolling wave of nausea that only seems to be partly to blame on Van Dijk’s unwanted compliment.

“And a special man, too.” Van Dijk’s lips curl into something that should be a smile. “I usually hate to see my toys break _after_ we’ve had so much fun, but … I suppose we can do some breaking before the fun as well?” 

He gestures to someone outside the room, who rolls in a tray of devices that range from equipment first used six hundred years ago ( _god_ he’d hated Europe back then, what a shithole) to syringes and vials of evil looking liquid, cattle prods, and the like.

“Let’s begin.” Van Dijk gestures to one of his associates and settles back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

Joe is able to ignore the first waves of pain - bullets and knives stopped frightening him years ago. He groans and curses, but it is not the performance Van Dijk clearly wants. Some sort of communication occurs, words he misses as he tries to focus through the fog of pain.

He takes a staggering breath and releases it slowly. _Nicky will find him. Nicky will find him. Nicky will-_

There’s an inhuman scream that shatters the air, and Joe realizes it’s himself a moment too late. It doesn’t stop. It won’t stop. It might not ever stop. He seizes and jerks against his restraints, panting and sobbing, and Van Dijk’s laughter is barely audible through the roaring in his ears.

He dies. 

It must have been shock that did it that first time - he rears back to life, only to be killed again. He thinks a few times Van Dijk stands up and joins, his suit jacket removed, sleeves rolled up as he jumps in, but the pain hazes everything and makes it hard to focus.

Joe tries to whisper the Shahada, tears sliding down his face, but he’s bitten through his tongue too many times.

Only one word with any meaning breaks through his lips, a muffled scream of “Nicolo!” that reverberates through the room when Van Dijk encourages the use of a vial of yellow liquid that feels like acid tearing through his insides. 

He gets slapped in the face for that, and Joe would laugh if he were able to - _slapping? Really? After all that torture, you think I’d feel a slap?_ A wounded cry is all that comes out.

“We could do this for years,” Van Dijk says after they’ve decided to take a break; Joe hasn’t felt this weak since his sixth death in 1099, when Nicolo took too long to wake back up, and his side wasn’t sealing properly. 

(They hadn’t tried to kill each other again after that)

“Years and years,” Van Dijk continues, stroking his hand down Joe’s bloodied face. “And we haven’t even started the real fun yet.” His hand goes down Joe’s neck, and Joe tries to jerk away from it.

All he gets is a cruel laugh; there’s nowhere for him to go; something else is pushed through his veins, and he thinks _GHB, or some sort of sedative, or worse_. Joe squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of Nicky, only of Nicky, because he doesn’t want to think about Nicky when it’s happening because only Nicky will ever make love to him, and he doesn’t want that sort of violence anywhere near his thoughts of his beloved -

Van Dijk’s wandering hands stall at the distant sound of gunfire.

“What was that?” He snaps at the guard nearest the door. 

“I don’t know-”

Another, less deniable sound of gunshots. 

“Find out what that is.”

He takes a step away from Joe, and three guards enter the room, shoving into the door. 

“Intruder,” one announces, eyes wild. “Oh God, we found … we - we found the first bodies out back, don’t know how long they’ve been dead for.”

More gunshots.

Joe finally laughs, spraying blood as he chuckles.

“Nicky,” he whispers to the floor.

“What?” Van Dijk’s hand is at his jaw again, forcing him to look up into his eyes.

“Do you remember my fiance?” Joe asks, as conversationally as he can with all the shit in his system. 

Van Dijk’s hand tightens convulsively on his face.

“Well.” Joe smiles, certain that it’s a ghastly sight. His words are slurring, the last thing they injected him with finally taking its toll. “He’s actually my husband.”

Screams of pain echo up through the warehouse.

Joe tilts his head and smiles as darkness swallows him whole again. “...And I think ... he found me.”

* * *

Years ago, Nicolo di Genova had brought his sword across the world and waged an unjust war.

The world is so much bigger now. And he has better wars to fight.

Booker finds the most probable location of Joe - narrowing it down to two locations near the port - within an hour of his arrival. Nicky could kiss him, if he were still Nicky.

He is not Nicky at the moment: he feels like he is made of steel and fury and ice. There is no human thought left in his body, other than the searing devotion he’d pledged to Yusuf al-Kaysani years ago when they’d left the dirt and filth and shit of war behind them to build a life (life after life after life) together.

Nicolo will remember that softness later. He will remember the kisses from drowsy lips, the soft hands slipping under warm blankets; he will remember laughter and gentle touch, smiles and curling black hair left behind on pillowcases; he will remember the house in Constantinople, the villa in Sicily, the rowhouse in London; he will remember _home_ when he sees Yusuf again. 

There is no room for gentle thought. There is no room for anything but rage now.

Nicolo studies the maps with what must appear to be calm to anyone watching, and nods when Booker taps one and says _this one is more likely, but we should check the other, even if they’re close together._

“You and Nile will check the other.” Nicolo strides to the door. “I will go alone.”

He does not wait to hear what Booker or Nile or Andy have to say about this: Andy will watch from safety, Booker and Nile will fight their way through to find them again, but Nicolo walks through the rain, cold water striking his face and doing little to distract him from the singular thought of Van Dijk dead in the street, his body no longer able to hurt others.

He steals a car; he does not regret it. He drives to the port, relying on muscle memory to recognize even the barest of traffic laws. He abandons the car three blocks away from the house.

There are guards lingering outside the back entrance that Booker had pointed out on the schematics; there are no civilians in this alley to witness what he will do.

His hood is drawn; he doubts any watching from windows will remember his face.

The guards are talking and laughing, mocking something.

A horrible scream pierces the air, startling a seabird that had come to rest on top of the building. Nicolo does not see the bird take flight; he only sees how the men laugh harder, gesturing emphatically as they perform crude pantomimes of sexual acts, something about _Van Dijk -_ -

Nicolo pulls his sword. How it sings so sweetly to be waging a holy war at last. The metal flashes through the rain, cutting the first down. Nicolo does not think before thrusting through the throat of the next, cutting short his scream of warning.

Nicolo watches their blood twist and tangle, fading from view as it spirals into the streaming water off the curb. Back to the sea, rust on salt. Nicolo does not pause to wipe his blade; he removes an extra gun, checks the ammo, and steals the keys off the second dead guard.

He is quiet as he enters the building; it is dark on the back entrance, but his eyes adjust quickly. Nicolo does not blink: years of sniper precision have afforded him perfect focus, and even beyond that, he thinks that he is no longer a man.

He is a sword.

He was meant to be a shield; for years, he has tried to be a shield. But he failed his Yusuf, he did not protect him when he was Nicky, and now he can hear him screaming above him, a scream that is undeniably the name that Nicolo wears when he is a man, and all he can see and taste and smell and hear is _Yusuf._

Without pause, he sweeps through the bottom of the warehouse, finding men in the hallway that leads to the stairs. 

Normally, he would pause and pray for their souls, even if for a simple moment. But Yusuf still screams and these men do not deserve mercy. Mercy is a gift from the compassionate, and Nicolo no longer has compassion.

He is a sword, and he uses his blade as an extension of himself, not using the guns he has brought with him - bullets pierce his side, and Nicky would think of Saint Sebastian, riddled with arrows in his fight for justice. But Nicky is not here. There is only a sword, and then, when the gunfire dies down, there are only bodies.

Nicolo steps over them and ascends through the building.

Again, he finds men. Again, he cuts them down. As the gunshots continue, bullets chasing him into a futile grave, the screams stop. Nicky would worry if this were a good sign or a bad sign -- Nicolo does not stop to think as he forces himself to let go of life faster, bleeding out from a wound to his chest, so he can come back faster. 

He does not die again.

Many do, but Nicolo does not. He has better things to do.

At last, he finds himself at the top of the building, and there are five guards facing him. Blood drips from his sword, off his jaw, down his hands that are beyond shaking, his muscles beyond trembling. Exhaustion is for men.

He is a sword.

He lets them shoot him, lets them run out of bullets; he comes back to life quietly and lies still in the pool of his own blood and ruined viscera and he does not move. Men move when they are in pain. Nicolo does not.

He thinks he can hear a groan of pain from the other side of the door; his fingers of the hand curled under his body from where he fell curl and grip the gun holstered to his chest.

With one swift motion, Nicolo rises to his knees, his other hand gripping the bottom of his gun; he kills three of them quickly. He rises to his feet and dispatches the next two, and surges through the door, slamming his shoulder into it when it does not budge.

The men on the other side fall away, and Nicolo surges again, stalking into the room when the door bursts open; he kills the two guards inside, bullets between the eyes, and stops when he sees Van Dijk.

He holds a knife to Joe’s throat.

Normally, he would laugh. Nicky would laugh when Joe winked at him, and they’d accept whatever brief death Van Dijk could force upon him so that Nicky could rush forward and kill Van Dijk forever while Joe healed.

But Joe’s eyes are not open. They do not open, even when Nicolo says his name, his lips stiff and cracking through the drying blood. 

“Yusuf?” He takes a step forward, and Van Dijk tsks warningly. 

“Hello, Nicky,” he says mockingly.

Nicolo’s eyes track the way Van Dijk holds the knife; that man is a sadist. The files have told them as much. But he is also a butcher without any real skill - he does not hold the knife correctly.

“We can work something out, I’m sure,” Van Dijk says. Still, he stands close to Yusuf. Still, he breathes the same air as Yusuf. Still, he touches him.

Nicolo remembers the guards’ crude gestures out front; he sees that Yusuf’s shirt has been cut away. He sees the drying blood around his torso.

In Nicolo’s left hand, there is a sword. In his right, there is a gun.

He lifts his right hand before Van Dijk can flinch and shoots him through the femur.

“Fuck!” Van Dijk collapses, the knife clattering out of his hand. He scrambles for it pathetically as Nicolo sweeps forward, teeth bared. “Wait!” He cries out. “Wait, wait, pl-please!”

He stabs the blade into Nicolo’s shoulder; Nicolo does not even bother pulling the blade out. Van Dijk screams as Nicolo grabs him by the shirt and hauls him away from Yusuf - he slams the monster against the metal table in the middle of the room and holds the sword to his throat. 

“I’ll give you anything you want,” the man babbles, “Anything -- money! Or - or a thousand more, just like him-”

“There is no one like him,” Nicky would shout.

But Nicolo takes the knife out of his shoulder and slams it into Van Dijk’s arm, pinning him to the table before holding the sword to his throat again.

The door opens behind them.

* * *

“It’s just us,” Booker announces, sweeping into the room, scanning for threats. “It’s just -- Jesus _fuck_ what did they do to him?” Booker abandons any pretense of a normal mission and rushes to Joe, holstering his gun and running urgent hands over Joe’s face. 

Nile tries not to look at Joe, chained to the wall, because she thinks she might cry. Instead, she positions herself facing the door and eyes the tableau unfolding in the middle of the room.

Van Dijk gargles, one hand on Nicky’s chest, pushing weakly, the other hand immobilized due to the knife through his arm. Nicky has yet to show any sign that he knows that Nile and Booker are there.

“L'hai ferito?” Nicky snarls, his sword held to Van Dijk’s throat. “L'hai toccato?”

“I - p-please, I do not understand-” Van Dijk wheezes and groans when the sharpened end of Nicky’s blade digs into the softness under his chin. “Please-”

“Did you touch him, you son of a bitch?” Nicky screams, his fingers of his free hand gripping Van Dijk’s throat now, his sword held aloft.

Another armed guard bursts into the room, clearly way too late to the party, and Nile puts a bullet through his head before Nicky can even look up.

“N-n-” 

For a second, Nile thinks Van Dijk is trying to say _no,_ but then she realizes that Joe’s moving again, his hand lolling around as Booker tries to support him, having slashed through the restraints holding his arms above his head.

“Nicky,” Joe chokes out, his voice slurring. “N-Nicolo, you f-found me-”

“Did he touch you?” Nicky says, still pinning Van Dijk down as he gurgles and pleas incoherently for mercy. 

“No.” Joe shakes his head where it rests on Booker’s shoulder. “No, you found me in time, caro mio-”

“See?” Van Dijk’s bloody fingers of his free hand scrabble at Nicky’s chest. “See?”

Nicky brings the flat of his blade down on Van Dijk’s head, and the man sags and collapses.

“After we find the children,” Nicky says, sweeping across the room to pull Joe out of Booker’s arms. “I kill him.”

“Right.” Booker nods and takes a step back as Nicky envelops Joe in an embrace so tight, it’s impossible to tell where they end and begin. “Of course.”

He touches Nile on the shoulder and jerks his head to the door.

“We should go,” Nile points out. “We need to grab Van Dijk and get out of here before the police show up.”

“Yes.” Booker nods and guides her out of the room; she looks over her shoulder as they pass through the door and sees Nicky’s bloody hand on Joe’s face, their mouths sealed in a kiss so desperate and endless that she can feel the nine hundred years of history and unwavering devotion between them.

“Give them a minute,” Booker advises her, checking his gun when they are in the hallway. “Then we will leave.”

“Sure.” Nile nods, still worried, and keeps an eye on the hallway.

Inside the room, Nicky’s tears mix with the blood on both his face and Joe’s, washing it away as best they can. Their foreheads press together, and it is Yusuf comforting Nicolo with tender kisses, and Nicolo comforting Yusuf with gentle touch, and they whisper to each other in an ancient language only they can understand.

* * *

Nicky stares out across the water, tracing the moonlight that lies in a silver stream across the sea. It’s a clear night, and warm air drifts through the open window, tangling the curtains around him as he sifts through anxious thoughts.

“Nicolo?”

His name in the voice of his beloved draws him away, and Nicky returns at once to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress to study Joe’s sleepy face.

“A nightmare?” Nicky asks hoarsely.

Joe nods and holds his hand out; Nicky tangles his fingers through Joe’s and bends to kiss his knuckles.

“Tell me about it?” He pleads.

“You know what it was,” Joe whispers, tears drying in tracks to his hairline.

“I wish I could kill him a thousand more times,” Nicky murmurs, more grieved than furious now. 

Joe shakes his head slowly. “I don’t. I would rather live with you here than have you far away in the world of death.” He squeezes Nicky’s hand. “We are alive, hayati.”

“I love you,” is all Nicky can say. He kisses Joe’s hand. “You are my entire life.”

Pulling back the covers to their bed, Joe silently invites Nicky to slip between the sheets once more. Nicky moves slower than he would have before Amsterdam - while Joe had insisted to him over and over again that none touched him in that way, the thought of even the threat to his beloved has been enough to cause Nicky doubt in touching him as freely as he used to.

This does not mean that Joe accepts this hesitance: even now, he takes their tangled hand and draws Nicky’s touch to his back, and then lower.

“I want you,” Joe murmurs. He kisses Nicky with a sleepy sort of intensity, and Nicky returns the kiss, moaning when Joe sucks on the tip of his tongue.

“You can have me,” Nicky replies.

“No.” Joe shakes his head and then twists to pull the slick from the bedside table. “No, I want you in me.”

“Yusuf-”

They’ve only made love with Joe inside Nicky since Amsterdam, Nicky keeping his hands still, only touching Joe where he asked specifically. It is bad enough that Joe had been taken, tied down, and tortured. But Nicky also wakes from nightmares of his own, after all, nightmares where he was too late, and Joe was dead, or Van Dijk had _hurt him_ in horrible ways. 

(Nicky has been the honey before in their traps; he has experienced the same almost-ness of that violence; he has carried the scars silently for years, and he hates that he could not come between Yusuf and that pain)

“I want you,” Joe whispers again, kissing him intensely before rolling onto his back. He is bare, covered by the sheets, and Nicky feels a wave of desire more heady than he can deny. “Do you not want me?”

“I always want you,” Nicky answers. He takes the slick from Joe’s hand and begins to prepare them both with assured strokes that rely on years of muscle memory of this adoration. “Always.”

He goes as slowly as he can, touching gently and then with increasing passion with Joe’s whispered encouragements that become loud groans and sweet noises that tumble from his throat without a hint of self-consciousness. Nicky chases the sounds along the source, his tongue laving at Joe’s neck before he bites and kisses along his chest, his hands working at Joe the entire time.

When he rocks into him at last, Nicky kisses Joe, a messy sort of glory to the way their teeth clack together, and their staggered moans act in balance.

It is slow, and it is nervous on Nicky’s part, but it is theirs, and when Joe clings to his neck and trembles so beautifully, Nicky is lost to it all, following his beloved into that sweet oblivion that only they can share. 

“I knew I liked Malta,” Joe whispers after, their skin cooling as he traces mindless patterns onto Nicky’s bare chest.

“I love Malta,” Nicky agrees sleepily. “I am glad we came back, Yusuf.”

Yusuf smiles and relaxes further against Nicky’s chest, heavy and drowsy from their activities, and Nicky wraps his arms around him protectively.

As his beloved drifts off to sleep, the distant sound of the Mediterranean lulling him as much as Nicky’s heartbeat, Nicolo thinks of how deeply he loves this man, how completely. His devotion to Yusuf is vast, unending as the sea. He will be his shield until both of their times come, at which point they will leave this life together.

And he will never fail him again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fjkdajfsdk;fjk;fjksdafjs; I wrote fluff this morning to make up for this chapter/this fic.
> 
> ...sorry sorry sorry for all the whump, and I really hope some people still enjoyed reading it (and that I'm not alone in liking whump h/c fics...) I'd love to hear what you thought!
> 
> Anyway, what should I write next for the Immortal Husbands now that I've done two torture fics, one getting-together fic, and a fluff fic?
> 
> thank you for reading!!!!


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